


Round

by PaigeTurner



Series: Bullet Points [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Assassination, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 22:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11838747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeTurner/pseuds/PaigeTurner
Summary: Odessa, from Bucky's perspective





	Round

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired a little by listening to Windmills of Your Mind on repeat. "When you knew that it was over, were you suddenly aware that the autumn leaves were turning to the color of her hair?"

09.29.2009; 09:46

46.4598895,30.5717043 (Odessa, Ukraine)

He slowly rolled the 45 caliber bullet between his thumb and forefinger, admiring the way the dim light glinted off the brass. Brass always seemed so warm, especially compared to the steel of his fingers. He pressed the bullet into the magazine and plucked another from the box. 

What did the bullet remind him of? 

He had relatively few memories that made any sense and none that he could call up on demand. The brass was too bright, too shiny. It should be dull. Scuffed. Brown and tarnished from the weather. From being outside. The spare key under a brick just outside the door. His fingers shook a little as he pressed the bullet into the magazine. 

His memories were a rabbit hole, following deeper and deeper underground until he began to fall, uncontrolled. He could feel the brick against the side of his foot, the weight of it as he kicked it aside. He closed his eyes tightly. He felt the rumble of an avalanche inside his mind. Memories breaking free. He could almost see the face, slim and pale, dark circles under blue eyes. 

The sky outside was the same blue as the eyes that haunted his dreams. The darker, sea-grey circle that rimmed the pupils. The flecks of green that gave the blue its warmth. He had stopped loading the Colt M1911A1. He shook himself from the past and continued. He had a mission. He had only a little time to get into position. His keys rattled in his pocket, clicking against a handful of loose bullets as he walked to the motorcycle parked outside. It carried him to a vantage point with a little cover, just enough for himself and the bike. 

Between the trees and the outcroppings of rock, he knelt in the grass and readied the gun. He waited, watching the distant stretch of road that wove along the clifftops. 

The once-black Jeep was tan with dust. He took his aim and his shot. One tire went flat with a loud pop and the vehicle slid out of view. He pressed his back to the rocks, heart pounding. There was something a little exhilarating about the mission. When he heard no crash, he raised his head up cautiously and peered around the rock. One tire hung over the edge of the cliff. A slim, black-clad woman with red hair was helping a man out of the Jeep while scanning their surroundings. 

His fingers tapped out a subconscious rhythm on his thigh as he watched. The man was his target, he got a clear look at his face as he squinted in the sun. He stood and took aim but the woman tucked the target behind her body. 

She drew a pistol, her eyes seeking a target. He felt her gaze pass over his hiding place. A chill, as the sun passed behind a cloud. He remained motionless; his eyes focused on her face. There was something familiar. The target. The mission. The gleaming brass of the cartridge. Cold air filled his lungs. He squeezed the trigger on his exhale. 

Both fell. The woman was moving, wriggling forward to wrap her fingers around her dropped weapon. He waited, gun trained on the target. Their blood mingled, staining the ground dark. She cleared the line of attack. He squeezed the trigger again. A perfectly round hole appeared in the center of the man’s forehead. 

“James?” Pain crept in at the edges of her voice, turning her cry shrill.

She was looking right at him. 

He backed away. He stayed low. He kept his eyes on her until he got to the motorcycle. He threw his leg over the bike and gunned the engine. 

She hadn’t gotten up. She was checking on the target. She was watching him watching her. The tires of the bike kicked up dust as he peeled out.

The trees cast long shadows over the road as their leaves turned from green to gold to the burnished copper of her hair. Winter would come soon. A pang of familiarity -- something he should remember but couldn’t -- spread through his chest. Suddenly, he couldn’t breath. The smell of the motorcycle’s exhaust, of decaying leaves, and lingering gunpowder, bittersweet almond, and a hint of frost threatened to choke him. 

He nearly lost control as the road curved beneath him. 

The motorcycle skidded to a halt. He couldn’t go back. He could not ever go back. He looked over his shoulder. Dust rose on the horizon. He scrounged a loose round out of his pocket and rubbed the brass like a worry stone. He tried to remember where the bullet had gone through her. He had aimed for center mass. The wind kicked up, carrying with it a chill that permeated his bones. He let the bullet fall to the ground as he dismounted. Abandoning the noisy motorcycle, he crept back to his vantage point. 

She had changed positions, using the jeep for cover. He watched, tensing at a noise overhead. A jet landed. He brought the rifle to his shoulder. 

She was an acceptable casualty.     
To certain people.

Men emerged from the jet; she set her weapon aside. They loaded her onto a stretcher. 

He lowered the rifle and made for the extraction point. 


End file.
